Christmas is coming and normally this rather greedy writer would be getting fat.
It has always been a tradition that I start drinking my body weight in Baileys from mid-November. Who cares if my favorite drink, because of the size of the measures I pour, has more calories than a Big Mac? It’s Christmas! And by now I’d expect to be at least four packs behind in the mince pie department.
It’s also around this time that I usually start working my way through the selection packs I buy for my nieces and nephews. Then I replace them, and then I eat them again. Every year I swear I’ll find some self-control and every year my willpower collapses like one of those pesky “longways” cards your Aunt Barbara always sends you.
During a particularly low moment, I ate all the candy from the Percy Pig Advent Calendar I bought for my then-five-year-old niece, who was eagerly awaiting to receive it in the mail. When I went to replace it they were all sold out so I lied and said I sent it and the naughty postman must have lost it.
I just love food and the holidays have always taken that love to the next level.
But Christmas 2024 turns out to be very different. My liter bottle of Baileys is still unopened in my cupboard. Just the thought of drinking something so thick, creamy, and rich is, honestly, a bit stomach-churning.
No, I have not been affected by the norovirus, it is much more serious than that: I am underweight. Forget the Grinch, for me 2024 will go down in history as the year Mounjaro stole my Christmas spirit.
Not only have I not had a Baileys, but I haven’t had a single alcoholic beverage since mid-October. It’s been so long since I’ve had a bite of chocolate that I’m not sure what it tastes like, while the idea of a warm mince pie is about as tempting as the thought of eating dog food. The choice packages? They lie untouched in the pantry, safe from midnight plunder.